The Agency

by Ally O'Brien

  “Don’t tell me you’re still angry at me.”

  I whirled around and realized he was teasing me. The bastard.

  “Don’t talk,” I said. “Don’t say anything.”

  “I can’t help it. You look great, Tess. You always do. I like the colors in your hair. Very wild. Very sexy.”

  I bit my lip and squeezed my legs together, because they were trying to spread of their own accord. I was fighting the urge to grab him, kiss him, and mount him.

  You have to understand that I’ve seen Evan only a couple of times in my life, and each time we wound up having sex less than an hour later. Yes, he is handsome, but I don’t usually react that way to attractive men. He’s my age, absurdly tall and lean, with dirty blond hair below his ears and a permanent scratchy stubble on his face. Blue eyes sporting an X-rated stare. A leering smile. Always relaxed and casual, wearing blue jeans and a worn leather jacket over a white T-shirt. Some men know you want them, and they’re so arrogant about it that you want to scream, but you keep running back for more. That was Evan and me.

  “So why are you here?” he asked. “To see Saleema?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’d that go? Have you two patched things up?”

  “No.”

  Evan laughed. He swept his shaggy hair away from his eyes. “No, I didn’t think so. God, that woman can hold a grudge. She had this strange idea that we should be exclusive just because we were engaged, but I told her from the start that monogamy wasn’t my thing. It doesn’t mean I didn’t love her.”

  “Take my panties off,” I said.

  No, I didn’t.

  “Stop talking,” I said, but he knew what I meant.

  “Saleema was a firebrand in bed, but not like you, Tess. You were insatiable. I loved that.”

  “We’re done,” I said. That was better than saying my nipples were hard and I wanted him to suck them. Although they were, and I did.

  I am not known for my willpower, but I was trying hard. Evan was determined to test me. He reached out and stroked my face with the back of his hand, and I slapped it away. With one touch, however, I had vivid flashes of the places and positions in which we had screwed around. Several of them involved defying gravity. My face flushed. He knew I was horny as hell.

  “One drink,” Evan said.

  “No.”

  “I can get us into the back garden at the Waverly. I have Graydon’s number.”

  “So do I.”

  “Then let’s go. You might get to meet George Clooney.”

  “Too old.”

  “Russell Crowe.”

  “Too scary.”

  “Are you afraid we’ll sleep together again?” Evan asked.

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Then what’s the harm in having a drink?”

  “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

  “I’ll join you.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Tess, why deny the connection between us? You feel it. I feel it. It’s there, so why fight it?”

  “Because you’re a cheating, soulless bastard who used me, betrayed my best friend and split us up, and because you think after all that, you can toss your hair and I’ll sleep with you.”

  And because you’re right.

  “Would it make you feel better if I said I’ve changed? I haven’t, but if it makes you feel better, I’ll tell you that.”

  “This is the world’s slowest elevator,” I said.

  For once, God listened to me. The doors opened, and we were in the lobby. I stalked toward the street, my heels tapping on marble. The security guard eyed me suspiciously. Evan strolled beside me, hands in his pockets, amused by my pretense of uninterest. He waved and winked at the guard as we passed.

  On Broadway, I tried to hail a cab. No luck.

  “Want me to get us a cab?” Evan asked. “We could share.”

  “No thanks.”

  I walked to Twenty-third and tried again. Apparently now I really was invisible, at least to all taxi drivers. I practically lay down in front of a cab, but it wheeled around me and shot eastward. Evan stepped into the street next to me and whistled, and a screeching, honking cab cut across four lanes of traffic in its hurry to squeeze his long legs in his backseat. I cursed.

  Evan held the door for me. “After you.”

  “This is my cab,” I said.

  I climbed inside, but Evan followed me and slammed the door shut.

  “Where are you staying?” he asked.

  “The St. Regis.”

  “Nothing but the best for you, Tess.”

  Evan leaned forward to the driver and gave him an address on Bank in the West Village.

  “Hey!” I interjected. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

  “One drink,” Evan said.

  “This is kidnapping.”

  “Graydon will want to see you,” he told me.

  “He knows I love him.”

  “The waiters look like Italian pool boys, and they pour the best martinis.”

  “I’m not going in.” But I was getting weak.

  “Okay, we won’t go in.”

  “As soon as the cab stops, I’m leaving.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  Evan smiled. He knew he had won. I folded my arms over my chest in mock annoyance and didn’t look at him, but we all know how this evening goes from here. Martini. Celeb gazing. Kissing. Second martini. Groping under the table. Groping in the cab. Reverse cowgirl. I hated myself, but a part of me said, what the hell. Darcy was history, Saleema was history, I was whacking tired, and Evan still looked as hot as ever, so why shouldn’t I allow myself a few orgasms as consolation?

  We stopped at a red light. Evan put his hand on my knee. I didn’t take it off.

  As things turned out, I didn’t even need the first martini or the celeb gazing. By the time we reached the restaurant, my tongue was in his mouth.

  You have to wonder about anyone who will pay fifty-five dollars for macaroni and cheese, but this is New York, after all. We slurped it up at a table for two near the fire and washed it down with ice-cold martinis. The back room at the Waverly features dark wood, dim light, and glowing wall sconces, as if this is Jack the Ripper’s idea of a Victorian pub. Not that it matters. You’re only there to see who else is there, and when the owner is editor of Vanity Fair, you’re bound to be surrounded by the A-list.

  Graydon himself stopped by to kiss me on the cheek. His slate hair looked windblown, as always, and his round face turned positively cherubic when he saw me. Is it possible for someone to look Canadian? He looks Canadian. God love him, he knows everything, so I wasn’t at all surprised when he whispered in my ear, “I hear you’re planning to ditch Cosima and set up shop on your own.”

  I winked, but I didn’t deny it.

  “Go for it,” he told me.

  “Will you still take my calls?” I asked.

  “I don’t take them now.”

  “That’s true, you cad,” I said.

  We laughed.

  While we were talking, a thin and unbelievably luminous blonde appeared at Graydon’s side and wrapped her waifish arms around his neck. It took me a moment to realize it was Sienna Miller. Graydon introduced us, and I mentioned that my assistant was in love with her, because Emma would chop off my head if I didn’t. I was pretty sure Sienna wasn’t going to climb the fence to be with her, but I did my part.

  Graydon and Sienna floated off into the crowd. I saw Hilary Swank. Serena Williams. Viggo Mortensen.

  Evan leaned forward. “You belong here.”

  “I’m just a poseur.”

  “No, you can make it in the big leagues.”

  “We’re eating mac and cheese, for Christ’s sake.”

  I scooped up the last forkful and then finished my martini and waved at the waiter for another. Under the table, Evan’s hand was on my thigh and moving northward. I’m so glad basketball players have long arms. It was too dark for anyone to see, a
nd I was drunk and tired enough not to care. There were plenty of real celebrities for people to ogle. The word from Graydon was that there had been a Michael Mann red carpet premiere in midtown, and this was one of the hot spots for Hollywood types spilling over into after parties.

  I was practically falling over. I can’t handle all-nighters like I could in the old days. I felt buzzed as I sipped vodka and chewed an olive. I tried not to think about sleep or Dorothy or David Milton or Cosima or Saleema or Darcy. I spread my legs a little to give Evan better access and was happy to let him feel me up. The room did a pirouette. I knew I would be bloodshot tomorrow, moonwalking on caffeine, but tomorrow was tomorrow, and tonight was for me. Screw everything else. I was in no condition to worry about anything except getting hammered and getting laid. Same thing.

  Needless to say, God likes messing with me, because He picked that ridiculous moment for Evan to announce, “Tom’s here.”

  “Who?”

  “Tom.”

  “Who?”

  “Tom. Tom Cruise.”

  I blinked. I shook my head. I had an out-of-body experience. “Did you say Tom Cruise?”

  “Yeah.”

  “WHERE?”

  That probably came out a lot louder than I intended.

  “Like ten feet behind you.”

  Evan probably thought I was insane, because I dove under the table, dislodged his talented hand from my crotch, and retrieved my huge purse from the floor. My fingers shivered as I unzipped it and spilled lipstick, coins, pens, cell phone, BlackBerry, granola bars, hairbrush, iPod, and condoms onto the table before emerging with the prize.

  A dog-eared copy of Singularity.

  I swayed to my feet. “Be right back.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Evan asked.

  “Perfect.”

  In fact, thanks to the adrenaline, I was suddenly wide-awake. Through the darkness and crowds of the garden room, I examined each face until I spotted the biggest crowd, and at the center of it, I spied the Man himself. He was unmistakable. Smaller than life. Wavy hair. Trademark grin. I didn’t hesitate but dove into the melee.

  I was so close. So close. I nudged and pushed and elbowed and shouldered and tripped until I lunged past the outer circle, and then past the inner circle, until there were only a handful of faces between Cruise and me. He could see me. He looked right at me. Our eyes met. He smiled. I smiled. No, Katie, I’m not a stalker, but Tom, you have to read this book. It was written for you. I was hearing the words in my head and rehearsing them as I tried to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

  There was only one face left between him and me.

  But that face belonged to Felicia Castro.

  “SHIT!” she bellowed, loud enough to be heard in Times Square. “What are YOU doing here?”

  “Felicia, let me have ten seconds with him.”

  “SECURITY!”

  Felicia clapped her hands over her head, which was obviously some kind of emergency signal, because two of the largest men I have ever seen in my life appeared out of nowhere and stood in front of me like a beefcake version of the Berlin Wall. I tried to maneuver around them, but they had already grown roots. People were looking at us. Beautiful people were whispering. I was going to see myself on the front page of the Post.

  Felicia popped underneath the hulking shoulder of one of the bodyguards and then straightened up and extended a long, bony finger at me. “Get her the hell out of here!”

  One of the apes grunted and nodded. I hoped it wasn’t feeding time at the zoo.

  “Felicia, come on, let’s be reasonable about this,” I said.

  Someone put a hand on my shoulder, and I realized it was Evan. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “Who are these guys?”

  “This woman is leaving.” Felicia sneered.

  “Like hell,” Evan said.

  I was beginning to like him more and more.

  The bodyguards realized they had a new foe, who was more formidable than I, but they didn’t look worried. Evan was still a boy toy compared to the Incredible Hulk twins. I had visions of a fight breaking out. An A-list brawl. Graydon would blacklist me forever. I would never pay fifty-five dollars for mac and cheese again.

  Then the bodyguards stepped aside as if Moses had parted them, and a familiar Hollywood voice said, “Calm down, everybody. What’s this all about?”

  Felicia and I both tried to talk first, and Felicia won.

  “Tom, it’s nothing. This woman is trouble, and I’ve asked her to leave. Don’t worry about it.”

  Cruise looked right at me, and his eyes twinkled, and he gave me one of those boyish smiles. I’ve never understood charisma, but you know it when you see it. “Is that right? Are you trouble?”

  I took a breath. I hoped I could talk.

  “Mr. Cruise, my name is Tess Drake. I know I look like hell, and I look drunk, and I probably am drunk. But I have a client named Oliver Howard who wrote an amazing book called Singularity. And I think if you read it, you’ll think what I think, which is that this book should be a movie, and you should star in it.”

  Behind me, I heard Evan laugh and say, “My God, Tess, you’ve got balls.”

  Cruise laughed, too.

  I held out my hand, which had the book in it. I tried not to drop it.

  Felicia reached out to snatch it from me.

  “It’s okay,” Cruise said, and Felicia yanked back her hand.

  Cruise took the copy of Singularity, glanced at the cover, glanced at the back, flipped through some of the pages, and nodded at me.

  “I’ll take a look,” he said.

  Hallelujah.

  21

  I WAITED IN THE LOBBY of David Milton’s office the next morning and tried to stay awake. I felt triumphant after my meeting with Tom Cruise, and I celebrated by taking Evan back to the St. Regis and experimenting with several new positions. Evan hadn’t lost any of his stamina. We didn’t get to sleep until nearly 5:00 A.M., and when my alarm went off two hours later, Evan was gone, but he had made coffee and left me a note that said, See you in London?

  A few weeks ago, I would have set fire to the note and beat my head against the wall. Now I realized I was actually looking forward to the idea of seeing him again. I never learn.

  The coffee helped. A little. I used Visine in my eyes, and I needed a lot of makeup. The results were passable. I visited the hotel restaurant for a real breakfast and then took a cab to Milton’s office at Seventy-seventh and Third. It was nine thirty. I don’t know why I expected Milton to be an intellectual property lawyer, but instead, the brochure in his lobby indicated that he was a solo practitioner specializing in trusts and estates. I was hoping he was a graduate of Bwana Bob’s Harbor Tours and Law School in the Bahamas, but the framed diplomas on the wall were from NYU and Columbia. Milton was no dummy. Too bad.

  He made me cool my heels for half an hour. When he came out finally and shook my hand, he smiled at me pleasantly, and I smiled back, which is a polite American ritual before you take out your knives and start carving each other up. Despite the odd little angle in his nose, Milton was not completely horrible to look at. He was not tall but solidly built, wearing a dark suit that fit snugly across his shoulders. His black hair was thick and shiny with gel. He had bushy eyebrows.

  We sat on opposite sides of his desk in the small office. Through the open window, I heard street noise a few floors below us. He offered me coffee, and I declined. He had a half-eaten bran muffin on a piece of wax paper in front of him, and he pulled off chunks and ate them between slurps of Starbucks.

  Milton leaned back in his reclining chair. “I assume Dorothy has told you about our little problem,” he said.

  “She has.”

  Milton chewed a piece of muffin thoughtfully. “I want you to know that I realize how awkward this is, and I really don’t want to cause problems for Dorothy. She’s a sweet old lady. I’m sure we can find an amicable resolution.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” I said
. Except for the amicable resolution part.

  “Good.”

  “Maybe you should tell me what you believe happened between your father and Dorothy Starkwell.”

  An ambulance passed on the street with its siren screaming. Milton got up and closed the window. He came back and leaned on the corner of his desk, looking down at me. “My father was a writer his whole life. He loved children’s books. He wrote many, many stories, and as I recently discovered, he wrote a novel. Unfortunately, he never broke through in the publishing industry during his lifetime. You’re an agent, so you know how hard that is. I know it was one of his great disappointments. Imagine my surprise and dismay, however, to find that the original idea for Dorothy’s panda series, which has made her a great deal of money, actually came from my father. I’m not saying she necessarily stole it consciously or deliberately, although I don’t know that for sure. She did steal it, however, and I think my father deserves credit, and his estate deserves compensation. Significant compensation.”

  “When did your father pass away?” I asked.

  “About fifteen years ago.”

  “So how is it possible that you’ve only made this remarkable discovery now?”

  Milton sat down again. He finished his muffin and drained the dregs of his latte. “I live in a small house in New Jersey, Ms. Drake. I’ve lived there ever since I launched my legal practice in my early twenties. When my father died, it was a busy time in my career, and so I took many boxes with my father’s personal effects and stashed them in my attic. I always intended to go through them in detail, but I never did. Until last month. I’m planning to sell my house and find an apartment, and I needed to clean out the attic. So I spent a weekend going through my father’s materials. Frankly, I knew I would have to throw most of them out, but I wanted to spend a little time with them before I did. I’m sure you understand.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Among other things, this note,” Milton said.

  He reached inside a manila folder and withdrew a photocopied sheet. The original had obviously been written on a small notecard. He handed it over, and I studied it carefully. If the handwriting was not Dorothy’s, it was a perfect likeness. The language sounded like her, too.